


Sleepy Cuddles (are Good for the Soul)

by artenon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, Fluff, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/pseuds/artenon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles jerks awake, his cheek smeared with his own drool—gross, but at least he was drooling on his jacket sleeve and not his keyboard, which his arm had been pressed against, and the Word document he has open has an impressive several new pages composed entirely of a string of lowercase “h”s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepy Cuddles (are Good for the Soul)

**Author's Note:**

> Truthfully, the only thing I'm capable of writing ever is fluff. Yeah. T for language, more or less. Takes place some ambiguous time some months post-season 2. (Completely disregarding Alpha pack and such problems.)
> 
> Kink meme fill for [this prompt](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4695539#t4695539).

Stiles jerks awake, his cheek smeared with his own drool—gross, but at least he was drooling on his jacket sleeve and not his keyboard, which his arm had been pressed against, and the Word document he has open has an impressive several new pages composed entirely of a string of lowercase “h”s.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, voice thick, and pushes himself back from his desk. He thinks he’s only been out for a few minutes, but he’s not sure. It might have been longer. His sense of time has been kind of shaky lately.

Also, he really needs to piss, so he stumbles into the bathroom to do just that. Afterwards, he splashes his face repeatedly with handfuls of cold water, staring into his sleep-deprived eyes in the mirror before turning away with another grumbled expletive.

He needs more coffee.

His feet drag, and when he slips going downstairs, Stiles pinches his wrist, hard, but it does little to wake him up. He even sits down on the step and punches his leg and arm a couple times, but they’re weak punches, because his arms feel really heavy, and they don’t do anything to help, either, so he just continues down, gripping the rail. He heads for the kitchen and paws around the cabinets until he realizes that they’re out of coffee.

Of course they are. How many cups has he had in the past day? Few days? Stiles isn’t sure anymore. He finds a Pepsi in the fridge and pops that open. The soda burns his tongue and throat, and his mouth feels kind of cottony and gross, but he keeps drinking it anyway, because he needs the caffeine.

He sits at the kitchen table, too lazy to go back upstairs just yet, waiting for the caffeine to kick in and almost dozing off before he catches himself and blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to stay awake.

Stiles starts to feel sick, then, like he needs to throw up. He’s lightheaded and his heart is beating far too loudly, so that it’s pounding in his ears.

He coughs violently, and nearly trips as he scrambles out of the chair to dry heave over the sink. His fingers are clutching the marble countertop and his arms are shaking, and Stiles knows that nothing’s coming up because there’s nothing _to_ come up—when was the last time he’d eaten, again?

He rinses his mouth out—which sort of helps with the cottony feeling—then goes and yanks the fridge door open again, but nothing looks appealing at all, so he just shuts it and drags himself back up to his bedroom, taking the half-empty can of Pepsi with him, downing the rest of it.

He deletes the pages of “h”s from his Word document, and reads over the research he’s compiled over the past several hours. It becomes apparent that he’s not actually reading, just staring blankly at the letters without putting them together into words and sentences, when his eyes start to glaze over and he has to shake himself to awareness.

Jesus, he feels like his chest is going to explode or something, his heart is beating so rapidly. And his head is pounding and his ears are ringing and his limbs feel jittery and like lead at the same time.

That’s the caffeine, he thinks at the back of his mind, and he wonders how much time has passed because he’s still not sure. He squints at the clock at the corner of his computer screen. 5:52 PM.

Not like he knows what time it was earlier. He’s been zoning out, only to find out that fifteen minutes or more have passed without him noticing. Sometimes he’ll even drift off without noticing, but never for more than an hour or so, he’s sure.

He’s been researching and researching and researching but he _can’t_ —find what he needs. He’s missing the final link, or he just can’t figure out how to put the pieces he has together, or _something_.

“Goddammit,” he curses. That’s the only talking he’s been doing lately, cursing himself.

It’s after he (sort of) reads through a couple more web pages when he gets a stabbing feeling in his stomach. He winces and curls in on himself a little and decides that yeah, okay, he should probably eat.

Briefly he considers going out—he’s getting a little stir-crazy from being cooped up in his house—but the thought of greasy fast food makes him feel sick again, so that’s a no.

He’s getting bad cramps, like his body is just realizing how hungry he is, so he quickly makes his way downstairs. He collapses shakily at the island counter and nibbles on some almonds, because he read somewhere that those are pretty filling. It does appease his hunger a little—well, it stops the stabbing pain, at least, so Stiles eats another handful, replaces the lid on the container, and hops down from the stool he’d been perched on.

A change of scenery might do him some good, he thinks. He’s a little more awake now; the caffeine has worn off a little bit, enough that he’s no longer jittery from it, but so that he can still feel its effects.

And that’s how Stiles finds himself at the local library. He realizes once he’s inside that he’s not entirely aware of how he got there—he vaguely remembers grabbing his keys and starting the Jeep, navigating thankfully deserted roads, but that’s the thing—it’s only a vague recollection, and maybe that should scare him, but he’s too out of it to really be shocked.

He is really, really tired.

It is also really, really bright in this library. Stiles screws his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them again. It doesn’t help at all, but he just stifles a yawn and wanders down the rows of books, not sure what exactly he’s looking for. He’s thinking about continuing his internet research on one of the computers when he rounds a corner and crashes into someone.

He stumbles back, mumbling an apology, and it takes him a moment to register the hand on his shoulder.

“—Stiles?”

“Huh?” he says, blinking, trying to get his bleary vision to focus, and, oh, that’s Derek.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Derek asks. He sounds like he’s repeating himself, which he probably is. “You look terrible,” he adds, and Stiles snorts.

“Well, we can’t all be impossibly fit like you.”

“I mean, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“That’s ‘cause I _haven’t_ ,” Stiles drawls. “Unless you wanna count a couple naps.”

Derek looks at him with a pinched expression on his face. “You mean you haven’t slept since your father was hospitalized.”

Stiles winces at the mention of his father, because yeah, that’s why he’s been researching, trying to find out if the supernatural or its hunters were involved, if his dad’s injury had anything to do with _him_ , if it was Stiles’s fault that he got hurt. It’s not like he would’ve been able to sleep, anyway. He’d tried the first night, and hadn’t that been fun. After waking up from a nightmare for the second time, he’d given up. And if he couldn’t sleep, why not research?

“Hasn’t Scott been to see you?” Derek asks, annoyed, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope.”

Derek’s expression becomes even more pinched, if possible.

“Hey, to be fair, I told him I didn’t want to be bothered, so don’t go jumping to conclusions and run off to yell at him or something. He’s my bro. I told him to shove off. End of story.”

“I should have checked up on you,” Derek says, sounding angry—not at Stiles, but at himself, which Stiles thinks is maybe curious, but he can’t really process anything enough to form a definitive conclusion.

He’s still thinking about it (or trying to), when Derek shakes his shoulders.

“Hmm, what?” he says.

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Derek asks.

“Uh, nope.”

“Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“No, come on, I just got here,” Stiles complains, pushing Derek’s hands off his shoulders. “I need to, you know.” He’s having a bit of trouble forming coherent sentences right now.

“No, I don’t know.”

“ _Research_ ,” Stiles says. “That…yeah.” He trails off, spacing out again, and his attention is brought back when Derek shakes him, not nearly as gently as last time, and Stiles lets out a plaintive, “Hey!” His ears have started ringing again—or, they’ve been ringing, but now it’s intensified—and it’s still so freaking _bright_ , and he has a headache. Ugh.

“Your heart rate is all over the place,” Derek tells him. “You need rest.”

“I need _coffee_ , that’s what I need. I’m out. At home, I mean. I should go buy more.”

“No. I’m taking you home, and you’re going to sleep.”

“I can’t, okay?” Stiles says irritably. “I can’t sleep.”

“Have you even tried?” Derek asks. “Since the first night?”

Stiles decides he shouldn’t answer that, but Derek sees through him anyway.

“Nightmares won’t go away if you run from them. Besides, you’re probably too tired to dream at all right now.”

“I am exhausted,” he admits, and when Derek puts his hands on his shoulders again (this time from behind him) and starts steering him out of the library, he just tries not to trip over his own feet as he stumbles forward.

“How did you even drive here,” Derek says, taking Stiles’s key from his jacket pocket; Stiles makes a weak noise of protest, but Derek just shoves him into the passenger seat and crosses over to the driver’s side.

“Dude, but I’ve confined myself to the house for like…two…three? days,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

“Too bad,” Derek says, entirely unsympathetic.

Stiles makes a face at him. “Why do you care, anyway,” he mutters, and Derek glances away from the road for a moment to look at him.

“Because you’re practically dead on your feet and I don’t want you collapsing somewhere public. Or getting yourself into a car accident.”

“But why do _you_ care,” he repeats, with emphasis, but Derek doesn’t respond.

They’re back at Stiles’s house soon enough, and when Stiles is too dizzy to navigate the stairs by himself, Derek grabs him by the wrist and practically drags him up to the bedroom, which is when Stiles starts protesting again.

“Seriously, I don’t want to sleep. Just leave me alone.”

Except it’s a total lie, because he desperately wants to sleep; it’s just that he _can’t_. He also very much does not want to be left alone. He’d actually hoped that Scott would come to check on him, despite telling Scott he didn’t want to be bothered, but he never came. But Derek’s here now, and Stiles feels warm where Derek keeps touching him, on his shoulders and wrists, and he thinks it’d be nice to feel that warmth all over.

“You’ll feel better,” Derek says. “Trust me.”

“Trust _you_ ,” Stiles says, scoffing. “Trust should be a mutual thing, y’know.”

A few seconds later, he adds, because Derek is silent, “It _should_ be a mutual thing, but it’s not, because I find myself trusting you anyway, so, you know, _whatever_. Things in life that should be mutual are sadly not sometimes, and you’ve just gotta deal with it.”

He collapses onto the bed horizontal, legs dangling off the edge, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at Derek unblinkingly for a while, until his attention slips, and then he’s just staring into space.

He’s brought back to awareness when Derek jostles him, taking off his shoes and socks, and lifting him up a little to pull off his jacket.

“You reek,” Derek says.

“You’re just full of compliments today, aren’t you?” Stiles replies. “I haven’t showered in like three days.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “Of course you haven’t. You should shower.”

“Let me guess, that’ll make me feel better, too.”

“It will.”

Grumbling, Stiles pushes himself off the bed and walks into the bathroom and closes the door shut behind him, dragging his feet the whole way.

“Don’t fall asleep in there,” Derek says, and Stiles repeats it mockingly under his breath.

“I heard that.”

“Whatever!” he calls through the door.

He strips and climbs into the shower, turning it on and gasping when the cold water hits him. That wakes him up a little, and he wonders why he didn’t consider standing in a cold shower sooner instead of ingesting all the caffeine to be found in his house and also pinching himself until his wrist is red.

But the wakefulness only really lasts for a couple minutes, and then the drowsiness is back, so he turns the water to warm.

And the thing is, the shower does help, sort of. It’s soothing, in a way, and he begins to feel a little more pleasantly tired and a little less bone-achingly exhausted—though he’s still plenty of the latter.

He shuts the water off, covers himself with a towel, and pads back to his bedroom. Derek turns away, staring out the window as he dresses, and Stiles says as he pulls on his boxers, “You can totally look if you want.”

Derek makes a sort of strangled noise.

“Not much to see, though,” Stiles adds, glancing down at his decided lack of abs before he pulls a t-shirt over it. “Unlike with you. You are so freaking _buff_ , it’s not even fair. You and your stupid muscles.”

“My muscles are not stupid.”

“They’re _ridiculous_ ,” Stiles asserts. “You’re kind of ridiculously hot, actually. Has anyone ever told you that? Ugh, it’s not fair,” he says again.

Derek glances back, and, seeing that Stiles is fully dressed, returns to his side and starts guiding him onto the bed, and Stiles is struck with panic. He doesn’t want to go to sleep again. Not when nightmares are waiting for him.

“No,” he says.

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Stiles.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, or, more accurately, whines. “Please.”

Derek hesitates. He stops trying to push him down onto the bed, but still he says, “You can’t just stay awake forever.”

“I can’t sleep, either,” he protests, wide-eyed.

“You don’t have to worry,” Derek says. “You’re safe here. And your dad is safe.”

“Is he really?” Stiles asks. “Who shot him? They never caught them, what if it was a hunter? God, Derek, what if it was my fault?” His voice breaks a little, and he lurches forward, clutching the front of Derek’s shirt. Then he decides, screw it, and hugs him, because he totally needs a hug right now and Derek is the only person currently available for hugging. Derek can be mad at him if he wants, but Stiles just really needs to feel another body. Preferably he’d like it to be someone who would hug him back, but he’s desperate and he’ll take what he can get.

Except Derek _does_ hug him back. It takes him a few seconds to react, but then he’s wrapping his arms around Stiles’s back, and wow, Derek’s hugs are kind of tight and crushing but also…really nice. Like, all-encompassing? Enveloping. That’s the word. Like he’s enveloping Stiles, and it feels all protective and safe. Or something like that.

Or maybe that’s just the lack of sleep talking.

“You’re rather insightful about hugs,” Derek says.

“Did I say all that out loud?” Stiles asks dazedly. He’s too busy feeling warm and nice and safe to care. “I’m a bit of an expert on hugs, just ask my dad.” He squeezes Derek tight because he can, because Derek’s not pushing him away, and presses his face into his shoulder/neck area, closing his eyes.

“I do trust you,” Derek says softly, then. “I’m sorry I don’t show it very well.”

Stiles snorts. “Or at all.”

“I’m trying.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, because he knows Derek has a mountain of issues to work through, and the hyperactive human kid who is only sort of associated with him because his best friend happens to be a werewolf (who wants nothing to do with Derek) should be the least of his concerns. “Okay.”

For a minute, they don’t say anything else, and he starts to fall asleep right there, which is, of course, when Derek says, “Stiles, are you—” and Stiles says, “Yes, shut up,” and Derek shakes his head, chin bumping the top of Stiles’s head, and maneuvers him down onto the bed.

Stiles makes a whining noise when Derek lets him go, because he’s not conscious enough to feel embarrassed about acting childish. “Come on, Derek, stay.”

Miracle of miracles, Derek climbs into the bed without protest, and Stiles cuddles up to him immediately and shamelessly.

“This is totally not how I imagined us being in bed together,” he mumbles, burying his face into Derek’s chest, and Derek tenses, starts to pull away. Stiles grabs the fabric of his shirt. “No, wait, don’t go.”

“Stiles,” says Derek, “you—”

“I maybe have a ridiculously huge crush on you. I mean, I think I’m sort of in love with you, actually. Because that’s the problem with me: I always seem to skip the crush stage and dive right into the love stage. And you’re so. Well, you. Even though you can be an asshole, you’re actually…really not? I mean, I could list all the reasons but you probably don’t want to hear them and right now I would really like to sleep and I don’t want to be _alone_ , okay, so don’t leave, please?”

Derek sighs a little. “Okay, Stiles,” he says quietly. “Go to sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles says, eyes already slipping shut. What little energy he might have had left drains away, and he feels bone-dead, muscle-achy tired. Really muscle-achy. He kicks his legs, uncomfortable, and Derek traps them between his.

“Stop moving, go to sleep.”

Stiles mumbles, but he doesn’t think he’s saying actual words, and he’s already falling asleep, anyway. For the first time in three days, he’s ready to let the darkness take him without a fight.

He thinks he feels a brush of lips against his forehead, but it barely registers, and then he’s asleep.

 

When Stiles wakes up, his eyes are gummy and sealed shut and he freaks out for a second until he manages to pry them open. He scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes, then lets his arm drop back to where it was before, and sighs, feeling remarkably refreshed, if not a bit lethargic after sleeping for who knows how many hours.

He’s more languid than lethargic, really, and it’s nice.

He’s also wrapped around Derek like a koala.

Stiles starts to get panicky about that and tries to extricate himself from Derek, except his other arm is trapped under Derek’s back, and then Derek just says, “You drool.”

“Do I?” Stiles says with a nervous sort of laugh, looking back on yesterday’s events with unwanted clarity (unwanted because it brings with it extreme mortification).

“Yes,” Derek says. “It’s disgusting.”

“I would’ve thought you’d be used to it,” Stiles says. “You know, being a dog and all.”

“I’m a _werewolf_ , not a dog, and I don’t drool,” Derek informs him.

“Meh,” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t move, and Stiles half-shakes his arm helplessly, unable to get free.

“Um,” he says.

Derek rolls over and Stiles rolls the other way, standing up from the bed.

“I’m starving,” he announces, trying to cover any awkwardness with his talking. “Breakfast? Or brunch, whatever time it is, I guess. First meal of the day, let’s just call it breakfast. Wait, I’m brushing my teeth first.” His breath tastes _foul_. “Then breakfast.”

He disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door. He slides down, back against the door, until he’s sitting on the floor, then proceeds to casually die of embarrassment.

Then his stomach rumbles, loudly, so he stands up and brushes his teeth.

He’s half-hoping Derek will be gone when he walks out of the bathroom, but when Derek isn’t in his room and it looks like he _has_ left, Stiles feels strangely disappointed.

He goes to the kitchen and stops shorts when he sees Derek there, standing in front of the stove.

“You’re still here,” he says dumbly.

“I didn’t go through all that trouble getting you to sleep only to let you go back to depriving yourself of food and rest,” Derek replies.

“Are you making pancakes?”

“I found a box of mix.”

“Oh,” says Stiles. “Cool.”

He sits down at the table and stares at Derek’s back as he flips the pancakes in the pan.

“Thanks for, you know, getting me to sleep and stuff last night,” he says. “I kind of really needed it.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m trying to express my gratitude here; don’t be a jackass.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Derek says, setting a plate in front of him, and it sounds vaguely mocking, but Stiles kind of thinks Derek is being sincere anyway.

He drowns his pancakes in syrup and starts eating, but pauses a moment later to nudge a chair leg from under the table, pushing it out.

“Come on. Sit. Eat.”

Derek sits but he doesn’t eat. He does raise his eyebrows at the lake of syrup in Stiles’s plate and says, “That doesn’t look healthy.”

“Your face isn’t healthy,” Stiles says. “To look at. It ruins my life on a day-to-day basis.”

He really needs to stop poking the elephant in the room with a stick. But Derek seems to be doing an excellent job of ignoring it. Which means he most definitely does not feel the same way and probably wants to forget the whole awkward confession entirely. Great.

“Your father,” Derek starts, and, yes, okay, tackling the second elephant, that’s a good, that’s an important change of topic even though Stiles doesn’t particularly feel like talking about his dad.

“My father,” he says.

Derek doesn’t say anything else and Stiles sighs, stabbing his pancake with his fork.

“I’ve been trying to find out if werewolves or hunters are involved somehow,” he says. “Just. Maybe it wasn’t, but I can’t shake this feeling…”

“There was an Omega that passed through recently,” Derek says, and Stiles’s head shoots up to stare at him. “A hunter could have been tracking it.”

“But the Omega’s gone now?”

Derek nods.

“Could just be a coincidence,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek tilts his head at him slightly.

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Me neither. So, what, a hunter—or hunters—is tracking an Omega, happens to go through Beacon Hills, catches wind of another pack already settled here, and decides to switch targets?”

“Something like that,” Derek agrees.

Stiles curses loudly, and Derek winces.

“Stiles, I’m sorry. I never meant for your father to get caught up in all this.”

“I know, yeah, I know, I don’t blame you. Just…damn it.” So it _was_ his fault his dad got hurt.

A thought occurs to him.

“So, wait, you knew the whole time—”

“No,” Derek says. “I didn’t catch the scent until later. I didn’t know the last time I saw you.” The last time being at the hospital.

“But you still knew later, and you didn’t tell me then.”

“I didn’t know—I thought you needed the space, I didn’t know you’d be forcing yourself to stay awake for three days.”

Stiles scowls, but Derek’s right. And Derek _probably_ told Scott, and Scott _probably_ would have come to tell him, if Stiles hadn’t told him to stay away. So it was his own fault, really.

Just like everything else.

Stiles moans, burying his face in his arms on the table.

“Stiles?”

“Nothing. I’m just.” _Guilty. Angry. Sick of being the weak link. Scared._ “I can’t believe I freaking confessed to you while I was sleep- and brain-to-mouth-filter-deprived,” is what he goes with, and it’s a really poor transition, but this topic is at least easier to deal with, mortification aside.

Once he gets past the horrible embarrassment, he actually feels really sad about the whole thing. He wasn’t planning on telling Derek about his crush that is also more than just a simple crush for obvious reasons (Derek doesn’t like him back, no point in ruining their sort-of friendship, Scott totally wouldn’t approve, hid _dad_ totally wouldn’t approve, yadda yadda, the usual stuff.), and now he knows and just. Ugh. His life. It sucks.

He feels a hand on his head, ruffling his hair, and Derek’s fingers skim over his forehead briefly. Stiles looks up in surprise, but Derek is already heading for the door.

_Okay, what the hell was that._

Wait. Forehead. Last night. Holy shit, did Derek kiss him last night? On the forehead, which was a totally platonic kissing location, but still.

“Derek, wait,” he says, standing up quickly. “Do you, um.”

Derek stops and looks at him.

“So, I may be totally crazy in assuming this, but I think you care about me.”

Derek is silent.

“I mean, you did sort of save me from the evil clutches of sleep deprivation, so maybe that’s a given now, but—” He stops, his now-fully functioning brain finally able to connect the dots laid out for him last night. “You knew from experience, didn’t you.” It’s not a question, even though he phrases it like one. “What it’s like to not be able to sleep for so long.

“The nightmares wouldn’t go away if I just ran from them. That’s what you said. But I spent so long trying not to fall asleep that I was too tired to even dream anyway. You knew that because you’ve been there before.”

“I have,” Derek says quietly. “Is there a point you’re trying to make?”

“Not really,” Stiles admits, shuffling closer so they’re not standing several feet apart. “Just making an observation, I guess. But I wonder if you had anyone to take care of you at that time.”

When Derek doesn’t respond, Stiles knows the answer is no.

“Well,” he says, carefully, “I’m here now. If you ever need. Uh, anything, I guess. If I can ever return the favor.”

They’re not really friends, Stiles thinks. He’s not sure. They work together when it’s convenient, and they’ve saved each other’s lives several times by now, but Stiles has never really stopped to try and put a label on whatever it is they are. He wants to be friends—he wants to be more, obviously—but as long as Scott’s not pack, Stiles isn’t pack, and Derek doesn’t get close to anyone who isn’t pack. He cares about Scott, despite Scott’s continued refusal to join his pack, but Stiles isn’t a werewolf, so he’s never imagined that he’s included. He’s never felt special when Derek saves him; Derek doesn’t want _anyone_ innocent to die, if he can help it. But now he’s shown that he cares about him outside of situations of immediate danger, and Stiles can’t help but feel hopeful about that.

Derek’s been silent the whole time Stiles has been mulling it over, as if waiting for something. He seems to come to a decision of his own, and tilts his head down, and Stiles mentally freaks out because it looks like Derek is going to kiss him.

He pauses, though—maybe he hears the way Stiles’s heart rate is jumping like crazy—and asks, “Can I?”

As if he _needs_ to ask.

Stiles nods, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering frantically in his stomach. “Yeah, yeah, totally.”

It’s the split second before their lips touch that Stiles thinks about how his mouth is totally syrup-y and gross and unappealing, but then they’re kissing and Derek is licking his mouth, and _into_ his mouth, so Stiles figures he doesn’t mind.

Stiles is pressing his hands into Derek’s chest. Or grabbing onto his shoulders. Or cupping his face. He doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, actually, so they’re kind of wandering all over. But Derek is hugging him tight, like last night, so Stiles thinks he’s secretly a hugger. Or maybe he’s just deprived of hugs. That’s a depressing thought, so Stiles resolves to fix it, forcing his hands to stop moving as he returns the hug.

Eventually, Derek breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t seem inclined to let him go just yet, so Stiles drops his chin onto his shoulder.

“My dad will be okay, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” Derek says. “I promise.”

Stiles learned long ago that not all promises can be kept, no matter how much the promiser or promisee wants them to, but he accepts the answer anyway, because the reassurance helps.

“We’ll find whoever did it, right?”

“Of course we will.”

Stiles sighs marginally. “Good.”

“There are things I’d like to do with you on my bed besides sleeping,” he says a second later, and that maybe ruins the moment, but whatever.

“Not until you’re eighteen,” Derek says, and Stiles looks pulls back to look at him with what is probably the most ridiculous smile ever.

“You think we’ll still be together by the time I’m eighteen?” Granted, that’s, like, less than a year and a half from now, but that’s still plenty of time for someone to get sick of Stiles, and the idea that Derek has actually thought even that far ahead in their relationship (which isn’t even a concrete thing yet) makes him giddy.

Derek’s hands, which slid down to his waist when Stiles leaned back, tighten their grip a little. “If you’re still interested by then.”

“Dude, do you not know the story of actual goddess Lydia Martin and poor mortal Stiles Stilinski who has loved her unfailingly since the third grade? Long story short, my love lasts _forever_.” He coughs, realizing that he just confessed his possible maybe sort of love again. And this time he was fully conscious, too. Damn.

“The point is, I can wait,” Stiles says. “I can totally wait. I live the life of the perpetually sexually frustrated already anyway.” He pauses. “Is kissing still allowed?”

Derek answers with a kiss, though it’s just a peck on the lips. Good enough.

“Cuddling and sleeping-in-a-non-sexy-way still allowed?” Stiles asks.

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek says with exaggerated patience.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, good. Cool. Great. Awesome.”

He just stares at Derek for a minute and grins goofily.

“What?” Derek asks.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just. Awesome. You’re awesome. Life is awesome—uh, parts of it, anyway. Love is awesome.”

Damn it, he just did it again.

But Derek just smiles in return. Not a full smile—and Stiles realizes that he doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen one of those on Derek’s face before; he’ll need to work on fixing that along with giving Derek lots of hugs—but just a small one, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”


End file.
